we are the kings and queens
by morbidbookworm
Summary: Agatha is seven when she discovers what it means to be the Crown Princess of the House of Wellbelove. She is sixteen when she is told she has to marry someone by her next birthday. Royalty!AU where Agatha is a princess and is supposed to choose a husband. But that's not necessarily the happily ever after this future queen wants.


**This might be one of my favorites of almost anything I've ever written.**

 **It's also probably the nicest I'll ever be to Agatha. I don't hate her, aside from the necessary dislike of anyone who interferes with Snowbaz, and I think she's a realistic and interesting (if not terribly likable) character by herself. My main problem is how the hell did someone like her go along with the adventures and magic for the first seven years? She just fit weird into the dynamic, and not just in the way she was supposed to. I don't think I'm capable of going purposefully off-canon with the personalities, so I'll always try to keep her in canon, but even in canon, her actions affecting Simon and Baz aren't usually that great, even if they are understandable for her personally. So, yeah, I don't hate her, but I probably won't usually be this nice to her. But that's my problem, not hers or anyone else's.**

 **Anyway, despite my personal feelings, this idea had a really nice feel to it and it helped me show everyone from a slightly different perspective, and it was really cool and fun to write, and QUICK, so I hope you enjoy it.**

 **(I meant to have this up a week ago, but FF was being a poop.)**

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Agatha is seven when she discovers what it means to be the Crown Princess of the House of Wellbelove.

She cries because she cannot go to her friend Minty's birthday, and because she is not allowed to play with the serving boy, Sacha, who brings her wildflowers everyday. Her mother brushes her hair one hundred times with a silver-backed brush and washes away her tears in a marble washtub. Her dress is white on white embroidery and there are pearls in her hair just for going to her lessons.

Her family's name is Wellbelove, given to them by the Coven because people cannot help loving them. Their beauty is in everything they do, it seduces and beguiles, but they do not use it for ill. There isn't enough substance behind them to have motives or ambitions. Their beauty is the only thing they have to give, and they are beloved for it.

The dance instructor tells her to keep her chin high, her arms out, her legs long and her feet pointed. She is stretched so tight she thinks might snap. Perfect.

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Agatha is twelve when she stands in middle of the Hall of Magic with her parents, aunts, uncles and grandparents set in a wide circle around her. They are motionless and pretty and frowning, just like their portraits lining the walls.

The Royal Magickal Artifacts rest untouched in their glass sealed podiums, and she has to choose one. Or one has to choose her. She closes her eyes and prays there is enough magic in her not to disappoint her family.

The swords, leather bound steel and sharp enough to kill, stay silent. She swallows. The scepters, wands, and staffs, thick handled and heavy, are still and cold. She blinks back tears. A tiny delicate silver key seems to laugh at her. A chunky jeweled ring ignores her completely. She is not brave or strong or clever or powerful.

There is a sound that she does not hear, a whisper she can almost see. It coils in her muscles, in her lungs like a foreign breath, and she touches the enameled handle of a mirror as big as her hand with outstretched fingers.

Pretty girl, it whispers, it sings, in her blood, in a shimmery haze around her brain. Pretty girl, beautiful girl. The fairest in all the land.

Tears splash on its silvery surface, but she has magic and she can use it well enough. Her parents are satisfied, for the moment.

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Agatha is sixteen when she is told she has to marry someone by her next birthday. She argues, and screams and cries, but her parents aren't evenlistening.

"Oh darling, don't be silly. Of course you'll find someone; there are plenty of eligible bachelors in the twelve kingdoms, I'm sure there will be someone nice."

"Don't worry dear, it seems scary now, but it will be better when you have someone powerful at your side. Maybe the princes from the House of Salisbury or Pitch – they have old magickal blood, and the eldest sons are about your age. Maybe you'll hit it off."

They can't hear her. Her voice is too soft, and their ears are covered. There are blinders on their eyes. They don't listen.

.

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Agatha is almost seventeen when the delegations from every noble family visit. She is introduced to all of them, one at a time. Some are kind, some are not. Her mother touches her arm pointedly when the Pitch and Salisbury boys are introduced. They are old families at opposite ends of the Coven, constantly warring, too caught up in their petty blood feuds to make trouble for anybody but each other. Her father told her one of them would be an ideal power match. Her mother agreed, but warned her that choosing one of them would mean losing the alliance of the other.

The boys are tall. Handsome. Powerful.

Her first reaction is to want them to like her, and it makes her queasy.

.

Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch is the last of his line. He is a sliver of pale moonlight and darkness, sleek and poised with a dangerous smirk of a smile and heavy grey eyes. He winks at her and makes conversation with her father, compliments her mother. He is intelligent and teasing, a prince all on his own. She wants him to want her, but he is too careful. Too slippery. She can't get a hold on him.

His magic is hot and almost painful, like blistering flame, like hard whiskey, cigarette smoke and grease burns. It's too much, and her tongue and throat ache like she swallowed boiling water when he casts **"Not a hair out of place"** to tuck a lock of blonde hair behind her ear. It was a risky move, a little too familiar a gesture to be proper. He smirks, his eyebrows arching in a challenge. She feels excitement brewing in her stomach, but does not take the bait. The back of her hand burns where he just barely brushed his lips against her skin.

.

Simon Snow Salisbury is sweet and genuine, with a thatch of dark bronze curls and charming blue eyes. He kisses her hand clumsily, and smiles and laughs freely. He offers to get her a snack and eats too much himself. His power is renowned, but he seems a simple soul and is infinitely gentle with her, despite his proclivity to clumsiness with both actions and words. He admits this openly and with a laugh. He wants her, she knows, he is enamored with her beauty, but she finds herself looking desperately for some sign that he wants more of her than that. Maybe if he wants it, the rest of her will show itself. She wonders if they would ever be enough for each other.

His magic is wood smoke and campfires, thick, powerful and miasmic. It is so powerful that she gets dizzy and drunk just from being around him too long. She excuses herself with a headache. It's not a lie; her head is pounding and it is a while before she can go back inside without worrying she might throw up.

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Both Simon and Basil lavish her in attention, but when they catch sight of each other their backs stiffen, and during the dinner banquet they are too busy glaring and sniping at each other to even glance in her direction.

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Lying in bed that night, she imagines what she would look like standing next to one of them, in her white dress and their finely tailored suits.

Standing next to Simon, bathed in sunlight. Every shade of silver, white and glittering gold. Warm and happy, just the way they were meant to be.

Standing next to Basil, the light to his dark. The sun and moon. Both of them cold and beautiful, like starlight. Untouchable. Powerful.

She hates how she doesn't know how she looks without someone else standing beside her.

Unbidden into her mind comes a picture of her standing in between them, and for a moment she wants that – both of them – more than anything else. But then she fades out of the picture and they still look the same, even standing next to each other. They don't change. They know how they look.

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All the nobles between thirteen and twenty five spend a day out at the summer castle to bond as the next rulers of the land, and they have the run of the place. Someone brings alcohol and they all end up on the lawn getting drunk and stupid, talking about their magic and passing around a bottle of cheap wine.

She is curled on an itchy blanket, talking with Simon and Penelope, the oldest girl from a lower class noble family. Nouveau riche, Agatha's mother calls them, but Penny has some interesting ideas about how to avoid highway robberies, and she listens partly because it is interesting and partly because she has nothing better to do with a fuzzy head, until Basil slides into their circle and waves his own personal flask under their noses.

"Can't be too careful about poison, Princess," he says, winking and taking a sip.

Penny is still talking, but Simon and Basil are now taking turns vying for Agatha's attention and then get so driven to distraction that they cut Agatha out of the equation completely. Soon they are practically nose to nose, grinning challenges and spitting taunts in each other's face.

Simon takes Basil's flask and takes a long drink. Agatha watches sleepily as he swallows and then makes a face at the burn. Basil is watching too, looking a little stunned. It softens him, somehow.

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Agatha is falling asleep, the world blurring as her mind floats away, but she still sees when the two boys sway and tilt and fall a little too close together until their silhouettes merge in the late evening light. There are a few whistles and catcalls and drunken cheers, but they don't seem to notice.

They kiss like they fight, she thinks absently. Fierce and harsh, totally focused on pushing and pulling each other together and apart. Burning, welding themselves together at the mouth, at the tips of their fingers. Like they want to tear each other to pieces. Like they want to swallow each other whole.

They would never kiss her like that.

The next day no one seems to remember, and she isn't sure it wasn't a dream.

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Agatha is turning seventeen in a week and she catches Simon and Basil kissing in a niche in a deserted corridor. When she does a double take, they are a good foot apart and appear to be ignoring each other.

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And then again with their shirts half off in the empty library.

They stop, panting, when they realize she is standing there, gaping at them. They don't let go of each other, fingers still gripping broad shoulders, mouths swollen from kissing and eyes wide, panicked, fearful and defensive.

"Sorry," she squeaks, blushing, and leaves, closing the door behind her.

.

And then mostly naked in the pool at midnight.

They don't see her, taking a lonely walk in her nightdress and shawl, hoping someone will find her.

They are twined so close she can't tell where one ends and the other begins, bare backs glistening with water, black and bronze hair slicked and damp and sticking to each other's skin. They are kissing like the connection of their skin is the only way they can breathe, like every touch is a sob, like it is their last night together, like it is the end of the world.

She leaves when their hands slip below the water line.

.

She wonders whether they are together in their rooms as well, or if the separation hurts. She wonders if there is something wrong with her, if she is missing something inside her, if her heart is so cold that she will never love someone so much that it is painful.

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One night at dinner she realizes they are touching feet under the table. Then that they are holding hands behind her back, when their parents arrange a carriage ride and they have to sit on either side of her. Their shoulders touch when they stand next to each other. Their knees when they sit.

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She feels their love for each other like magnets, like a forest fire, like tears that just won't come. They look at each other with a kind of terrible honesty, like they are each other's own burning flesh and beating heart. Like they want to dig into each other with teeth tongue and claw, dragging their nails to mark the other's skin. Like their magic is welling up and spilling over the sides into their skin, hopelessly feeding each other into a fiery frenzy, and she hates herself for wishing they would love her like that, for wishing anyone would love her like that so that maybe she could try to love them too.

She wants them to leave, but she is stuck in the middle and every other unwatched minute has them glancing at her warily. Don't tell. Don't choose me. Don't let them keep us apart.

Please.

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She sees them once in Simon's rooms. They aren't kissing, but sitting across from each other on the bed, arms wrapped around each other and faces pressed into their shoulders. They are shaking a little, they might be crying, and at the same time soothing each other, running their hands up and down each other's backs and rubbing their cheeks into each other's necks.

Hush, love, don't worry. I'll protect you, I won't let anyone take you away from me. I choose you, I choose you over everyone else, I choose you a hundred times. I love you.

She wants to know what she wants.

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It is her seventeenth birthday, but she does not choose a husband. She stands up at the end of the ball and unrolls the scroll that she and Penny had spent hours creating, agonizing over every word until they had something that will work for all parties involved.

Everybody, including her parents, is listening in growing horror, but she addresses the young nobility whom she had gotten to know, who would be taking their parents' places in a few years as the new rulers, the new court. She asks them to forget the old ways of alliances through marriage and to sign her peace treaty as several nations unified not by blood or magic or selective mergers, but through their own desire for peace and the relegation of old grudges.

Simon is the first to sign, with Basil right behind him and Penny and Rhys and Garret and Trixie and Elspeth until the new generation has completely overturned the political atmosphere and their parents are left wondering what just happened.

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Agatha is eighteen when she chooses to go to university. She is not smart or strong, but she loves her country and wants to be the ruler her people deserve, even when she can't give them everything they need. She wants to be selfish and happy. She wants to do good.

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Agatha is twenty, twenty four, thirty, forty five, fifty seven, sixty. She wears pink dresses and goes riding every day. She meets a kind noble who is the third child of a Duke and is fascinated with painting her. They make her laugh as she poses for them. Sometimes she recognizes the paintings when they're finished, like she's looking in her mirror, but sometimes she sees something else, someone else, and she wonders how this person sees her in so many different ways. She doesn't know if she loves them the way she's supposed to, but she loves them the way she does, and what's more she likes being with them.

Penny is her grande visor. Her parents are as proud as she can make them, and she relaxes into being less of her parents' daughter and more of herself. She loves her children, and then her grandchildren. She makes sure they all know she loves them, no matter their magic or who they love or what they wear.

She doesn't see Simon or Basil again, at least not close enough to talk to them. Penny keeps in touch with them. She says they left and didn't come back for long time.

Agatha hopes they are happy.

Not perfect. Not happily ever after. Better.

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 **Thank you, and please review.**


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